Old Mrs. Greyson from across the street

You don't care if you're hot and sweaty after fucking Mrs. Sumter and Mrs. Olssen. You open the door and little Mrs. Greyson, the widow from across the street is standing holding her wrinkles hands.

"I'm sorry to be a bother," she squeaks. "My son isn't coming over and I need to move a few boxes in my house."

You stare at her gray hair tied into a bun at the back of her head. Her eyes squint behind a pair of bifocals that rest on a deeply wrinkled face. She is covered in a black shapeless dress with the lace collars. Her black heavy shoes are orthopedic. She must be at least 70 years you think. That's twice 35. You feel your cock strains against your shorts.

"Y-yes," you gulp.

You take her arm to walk her across the street. Her dry wrinkled flesh makes your head swoon a bit. That old lady smell invades your nostrils as smells like the sweetest perfume. Her weak, small steps make the sexual tension increase with anticipation.

You finally cross the street and enter her house. Must and stale food is a heady aroma to you.

She directs you to the boxes and you dutifully carry them upstairs.

When you come back down the stairs, you are shaking with desire as you gaze upon the sex goddess.

"Now, I don't want to be a nosy old biddy," her voice cracks. "But I seen you dally with those two married women. You're a nice young man. You should find someone closer to your age."

She wagged her finger at him.

That was all it took.

He yanked down his shorts and exposed the biggest boner he ever had with some pre-cum glistening on it.

"Oh my," Mrs. Greyson whispered softly.